


Compassion

by kaiz



Category: Brimstone
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-22
Updated: 1999-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/90138">Gift</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compassion

Cool sand surges, slithers between my toes as restless waves break against the beach. Upon the dark waters, a few surfers ride the last waves before nightfall, wet suits a slick black in the fading sunlight. Of the many, sensual pleasures of the flesh, the pure simplicity of walking barefoot upon wave-kissed sand remains one of my favorites.

Walking along the water's edge, I feel the fingers of the ocean breeze ruffle my hair, smell the salt of the great Pacific, see anonymous figures - friends and lovers - gathering on the beach, hear their delighted laughter and taste the ash from their bonfires upon my tongue. And above the kelp-strewn high-tide mark, I see him, a defeated figure huddled within a tattered blanket.

February fourteenth: the ragged end of winter, nearly spring. Saint Valentine's Day. Not especially significant to me, but to him, it's importance is undeniable.

As I approach him, not for the first time I wonder why I've come. Why - after countless millennia of shrewd, cruel manipulations of humankind - I should contemplate such a wanton, blind act of compassion.

"Ezekiel." My voice is blessedly calm, though my thoughts, my emotions roil with unfamiliar confusion. In the sun's last rays, I can see the tears on his face - for her, for him, and everything he has lost. For everything of his that I have, in turn, gained. Regret - like compassion - is a feeling with which I have become unaccustomed over the centuries. Sitting beside him on the sand, however, I feel its sharp, wintry sting, in marked contrast to compassion's earlier glow. They are both uncomfortable feelings for me - an ancient, irredeemably malevolent spirit.

"I have something for you."

He turns towards me and I carefully, intently, parse his expression. In his eyes, I read grief, regret and despair. And, if I concentrate, I can hear the current of his thoughts, feel the burden of sorrow and loneliness as if it were upon my own shoulders. Unbidden, I hear the plaintive echo of his internal monologue, _...there is nothing left of our love..._

The thin, golden circlet in my pocket, a ring carefully salvaged from his cold grave, seems suddenly heavy, perilously fraught with the unknown.

"Give me your hand."

Reluctantly, he opens his hand and places it in mine. He is wise to be wary: my gifts are seldom uncomplicated.

However, even to me, the consequences of this act are opaque. A fact which abruptly leaves me frightened and in this human form, breathless. Quickly, before I can fully acknowledge the risk, before he can read the turmoil upon my face, I press the ring into his palm, closing his fist around it.

And depart before his eyes reveal the joy or anguish engendered by my gift.

_Finis._


End file.
